Command me to be well
by Redhead Maniac
Summary: Murphy has turned snarky and Connor can't figure out what's wrong. Nothing he knows works as Murphy closes more and more. It hasn't occurred to Connor that maybe he's focusing on the wrong thing.


A/N: I've never been to a confession, so pardon any inaccuracies.

* * *

Usually it's Connor who plunges into mood-swings at random, becoming gloomy and irritated, snapping at every step of Murphy's stupid antics. This time, however, it's the dark haired twin that's surly as hell, and Connor is at a complete loss as to what the possible cause might be, if there _is_ one.

He tries the head-on approach, asking what the fuck is wrong. He gets a black eye and a sore jaw from the mighty sucker-punch his brother throws at him a second later. Connor decides that asking is not the best approach.

The next logical option (for Connor, at least) is to beat it out of the pissy fuck. That proves to be fruitless as well, with both of them ending on the dirt-covered floor ("I fucken told ye ta clean up, moron!" — "I amn't yer damn housewife, ye shlong!"), panting for breaths and nursing their split lips and bruised torsos. Murphy still doesn't say a thing on the matter.

Third time's the charm, decides Connor, nodding in encouragement as Rocco gives him an unsure glance. Needless to say, Murphy doesn't take well to their friend inquiring whether he had "some beef with Connor, or what? Dude, you two look ridiculous not together." Thankfully, all Rocco gets is a verbal avalanche of curses, and it's far more eloquent than the Italian's fuck-tirade. Connor merrily notices Murphy's thrown in a couple of French and Gaelic curses. When he voices his amusement, he gets punched in the jaw. Again.

It's been a week and Connor is climbing up the walls in sheer frustration. When Murphy decides to sleep in his own bed, however, Connor reaches the breaking point.

"The fuck d'ye think yer doing?!" he all but screams, uncaring of the late hour and neighbours knocking on the paper-thin wall.

"Trying ta sleep, ye fuck," Murphy sneers, his back turned to Connor, and the blond MacManus feels his blood boiling. He wants to strangle his stupid-assed brother, but violence has shown to be completely useless in this situation, so he growls, as menacingly as he can, "Well don't fucken bother ta come back ta our bed if ye stay there!"

He fully expects Murphy to grumble, call him a stupid fuck and begrudgingly get out of his own bed and join Connor. His stomach sinks as seconds tick by and Murphy doesn't make any move towards his bed. For the first time ever, Connor feels a gripping fear that his brother is not there. He's never experienced that in the twenty six years he's known Murphy, and that makes it scarier than it is.

He is too shocked to try anything else, to coax his brother from under the blankets, and after standing in front of Murph's bed like a complete fool for several minutes, the elder MacManus turns around and crawls into his own bed, gripping the pillow between his arms and staring at the cracked wall.

Neither one sleeps that night, tossing and turning and grunting, but not saying a word.

When Connor wakes up from his faint slumber, Murphy is gone. The panic grips him by the throat and he has to remind himself to breathe before the rational part of his brain kicks in. There's a tell-tale spatter of water on the tiles, and Connor sags in relief, dragging a hand over his face. His brother is in the shower, he isn't gone, he's still there.

Connor has half a mind to join him, but the night's events come rushing back with a certain worry and bitterness. Connor probes their bond, but feels nothing — Murphy has closed himself off.

Getting out of bed and throwing on a pair of faded-blue jeans, Connor stumbles into the kitchen and puts the kettle on the stove, fishing for a crumpled pack of cigarettes hidden in the cupboard. He lights one up and inhales, waiting for the water to boil.

Can't afford good coffee these days, have to drink the piss called "instant coffee" instead.

The kettle starts screeching the same moment Murphy walks out of the shower, toweling his hair and dripping all over the floor, leaving wet footprints on the cheap carpet. Connor gives him a bleak smile when Murphy comes closer, but the darker twin draws his gaze to the side, and, pointedly ignoring him, reaches for the kettle.

Connor closes his eyes to draw in a sharp breath, then storms off to the place they call the living room. Pulls on his shirt, stuffs a set of keys into his jeans, a couple of bills, throws on his peacoat and slams the front door.

Murphy spares him a covert glance and pours the boiling water into his cup of instant coffee.

Connor prays for a good while, until his knees start to hurt, and looks at the confessional. His last confession was a week ago, just before Murphy had started to sink into the gloominess. He chews on his lip and finally rises to his feet, not bothering to dust off the jeans.

The confessional is just how he remembers it — dark and small, and the smell of wood and molten wax is comforting. Normally, Connor would sit, but today he kneels at the screen.

He gulps down a lump in his throat and parts his dry lips, crossing himself "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last confession."

Connor tells the priest of his mistrust towards his brother, of his anger and foul words, of the fight he started. Of involving an innocent person and of the overwhelming jealousy that his brother has replaced him with someone else. The priest listens closely, sensing that Connor doesn't need an answer to any of his questions. Then he asks him to read the act of contrition.

When the Father prays absolution, Connor utters a quiet, "Amen."

"God has freed you from your sin. Go in peace," the priest's voice is firm and gentle as Connor rises from the wooden floor of the confessional, feeling a bit less weighted than he was before.

"Thanks be to God," he answers, crosses himself again and exits. He feels somber, and yet admitting to everything he's felt makes him realize something.

Maybe Murphy doesn't need to tell him what's wrong.

When he comes back, Murphy is sitting with his back to the door, feet up on the table and smoking. Connor doesn't bother greeting his brother, he simply shrugs off his coat and hangs it on the nail.

His rosary sways with the movement, and Connor catches it in his hand, fingers gently tracing the surface of the cross as a thoughtful expression comes over his face.

Then, without further thinking, Connor comes up behind Murphy and bends down, wrapping his arms around his twin's neck.

Murphy almost falls backwards in his chair, an angry sputter of, "What the fuck, Conn?!" leaving his lips.

Connor doesn't say anything as he burrows his nose into Murphy's jet-black hair and kisses the top of his head, inhaling the familiar scent.

Murphy bristles and tries to push his hands off, but Connor is insistent in his snogging.

"Fuck, Murph, just stay still, will ye?" he bites out tersely, and when Murphy won't shut up, looks right into his angry, electrifying-blue eyes and kisses him full on the mouth.

Murphy resists at first, biting Connor's lip until there's a tinge of blood, hands coming up to claw at the blond's neck and scalp, but Connor just holds him there, not moving an inch. Not even his tongue — it's just a firm press of lips, his eyes closed and breaths deep and even.

Murphy lets out a pathetic, frustrated whimper and swallows, tangling his fingers in Connor's sandy-blond hair. _California surfer boy_.

When Murphy arches his back and yanks on his twin's hair to get him to bend lower, Connor opens his eyes and there's mirth in the twin oceans of blue.

They don't make it to the bedroom, don't need to. And as Murphy is splayed on the rickety table, praying to God it doesn't fucking break under their joined weight, Connor traces his body with his hands and lips, but with a firmness, a demand that wasn't there before. It's not in any way gentle, but neither rough. Connor simply gives and shows, forcing Murphy to take it and whimper and bend.

Murphy doesn't ask for more, because Connor knows what to give.

The kisses are scalding hot, the grip on Murphy's thigh is tight on the borderline of painful, and the look in Connor's eyes as he enters can never be put into words.

He _makes_ Murphy forget whatever it is troubling him.

When they're lying on the table covered in sweat, shivering from exhaustion and cold air, Murphy threads his fingers through Connor's tresses, giving a low hum.

"Ye don't want ta know what happened, Conn?"

"No."

"Why?"

"I don't need ta."

There's a long pause as both are lost in thought, and then Connor finally adds, "No matter what goes wrong, Murph, I'll always be there ta fix ye."

Murphy squints at him, then gives a slow nod, licking his reddened lips, "Aye, Conn. I know ye will, brotha'. I know ye will..."

They don't need to say more as the overwhelming sensation of unity slams back, almost making Connor gasp. Murphy has opened up to him, and he can feel their bond again.

So maybe, sometimes, Connor doesn't need to know the cause.

All he needs to do is fix Murphy.


End file.
